Care for You
by Sara Dobie Bauer
Summary: Sherlock is an unbonded omega, abducted by a madman. Alpha John can't lose his best friend—he can't—so he'll do anything to keep Sherlock safe. Omegaverse.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock had been missing for nine hours when they found him, but to John Watson, those hours felt like weeks. After the all clear, he followed Lestrade and his team, but nothing prepared him for the brightly lit room or the dead omega, her insides on the outside.

A cursory glance told John her reproductive organs had been removed. A closer glance told him those same reproductive organs sat on a metal tray next to the wide-eyed corpse, handcuffed to a hospital bed nowhere near a hospital.

There were three beds, in fact. A screaming, weeping female omega laid in a bed beside the dead body, similarly bound, with an IV in her arm. Next to her was a thin male omega with black hair.

"Sherlock," John hissed and ran to his friend's side. He grabbed Sherlock's too-warm hand and squeezed.

Sherlock's eyes opened for a moment, glazed, confused. "No. Emily. Help Emily."

John looked up at the sobbing woman in the next bed. "Lestrade is helping her. I'm helping you."

"John …" He squeezed his eyes shut.

 _Assess the patient, Watson._ Sherlock's white shirt, crisp last John saw it, was now wrinkled and soaked and buttoned incorrectly. His ankles and wrists were handcuffed to the bed. His wrists were not only purple but bloody, as well. Sherlock had probably spent hours pulling at his prison. He also had bruises on the side of his neck—mouth-shaped bruises.

John's alpha hackles went up. He tried to keep his voice low and calm. "Sherlock, what's in the IV?"

Sherlock blinked under the harsh overhead light and turned his head to the side. "What I assume to be fluids, some kind of sedative, and Propanacor."

"Jesus." John immediately reached to remove the IV from his friend's arm. He used his own handkerchief to staunch the tiny flow of blood.

"He was inducing heats," Sherlock mumbled.

John smelled it then, the way Sherlock's usually scentless omega skin smelled like something else entirely: like warm honey and brown sugar. The brilliant consulting detective who'd been on suppressants the entirety of their friendship was going into heat, all thanks to a sadistic madman and his drugs.

"Lestrade, the keys!" John yelled.

"Yeah, mate," Lestrade yelled back, head tilted as he listened to his radio. "They caught him out back, raving about reproductive responsibility. How's Sherlock?"

"He's—"

The female omega next to Sherlock's bed said his name and reached her tethered hand toward his. She said his name again, louder.

"It's all right Emily. It's okay," Sherlock muttered, barely able to keep his eyes open. "You're safe …"

John's eyes burned as he reached forward and pushed soaked hair from his friend's forehead. "We need to get them out of here. The bastard was feeding them Propanacor."

Lestrade's mouth hung open as he glanced fleetingly at Sherlock, which made John want to jump between them and growl. "Shit." He spoke into his radio. "Handcuff keys! Search him for handcuff keys."

Sherlock groaned. "John, get me home. My suppressants …"

"Shh. I know." He squeezed Sherlock's hand just as he heard running feet. A police officer trotted into the room of revulsions and handed Lestrade a set of keys.

Unlocking the surviving omegas was simple, but getting them to walk wasn't so easy. At least Lestrade could simply carry the Emily woman to a waiting car where she would be taken to a hospital filled with other omegas who wouldn't do her harm—unlike the wide range of alphas in the world who would have trouble not attacking an unbonded omega in heat: like Sherlock, for instance, who crumpled when he tried to move without John's support.

John wrapped his arm around Sherlock's waist and walked. "You're burning up."

Sherlock bent in half and clutched his stomach, almost sending them both to the ground. The heat scent of him increased, and John shook his head to clear his mind as his inner alpha bore its teeth.

"Come on, almost there."

Sherlock came back to himself a bit once they got outside, free of the tepid room that smelled like death. The breeze on his face woke him enough, at least, to get him to the waiting car that would hurry them back to Baker Street. The young beta officer behind the wheel turned on the sirens and took off into the London night as soon as John slammed the back door.

Before John could reach out to check on the detective, Sherlock grabbed onto the lapels of John's coat. He practically climbed on John's lap as he shoved his scalding forehead against John's neck and muttered, "You wouldn't. You wouldn't take advantage."

John wrapped his arms around his trembling friend. "No. God, no."

Sherlock nodded and remained where he was, pressed against John until—with the beta officer's help—John dragged him upstairs. In the bathroom, John hurriedly administered a dose of Sherlock's prescribed suppressant. Unfortunately, it wouldn't kick in for an hour, during which Sherlock would have to suffer through an unbonded heat for the first time possibly since puberty.

Calmly, John cleaned Sherlock's bleeding wrists and the angry spot left from the IV. He then tumbled Sherlock into bed. As he turned to leave, Sherlock's hand grabbed his wrist. "Stay for a little." He sighed as though embarrassed.

"Yeah." John sat on the edge of the bed and ran his fingers through his friend's filthy hair.

"He was teasing us, punishing us," Sherlock murmured. "For living on suppressants. For not bonding, not breeding. He said if we weren't using our organs, we didn't deserve them. He …"

John thought of the bruises on Sherlock's neck.

"He had an entire list of unbonded omegas on suppressants. He would have kept …"

"You don't need to talk right now."

"No, it helps me. Helps to think." He lifted his head suddenly. "Where's Emily?"

"Lestrade took her straight to an omega hospital."

His head hit the pillow. "She was so afraid."

"Were you afraid?"

For a moment, John caught a glimpse of the strong detective he'd known for years. "I was angry," he said, eyes bright, before he fell asleep.

John stayed with Sherlock for a while as the suppressant kicked in, as Sherlock's normal nothing scent returned. John had been perhaps a little worried, ages ago, when he'd first moved into Baker Street. He was an alpha, after all, living with an astoundingly gorgeous omega without a mate. However, Sherlock had placated his nerves, permanently on suppressants, never going into heat. It hadn't been a problem—until now.

He heard the sound of familiar feet climbing the steps and closed the door to Sherlock's bedroom to meet Lestrade in the kitchen. The DI was out of breath. "Is he all right?"

John's hands folded into fists. "I have no idea honestly."

Lestrade nodded as if he understood. He averted his gaze.

"What is it?"

"The monster videotaped some of it."

John chewed the inside of his lip. "I want to see."

Lestrade blew a long, slow breath of air between his lips. "Just know that Sherlock did his best for those women. He even volunteered himself to be first on the cutting board."

"I want. To see it."

"John, I really don't think Sherlock would want you to watch. It isn't easy. Plus, I don't think he'd want you to think of him as …"

John was practically toe-to-toe with the alpha inspector. "As what?"

"A victim."

John and Lestrade both jumped at the sound of Sherlock's voice nearby. He hovered in the hallway in his sweat-soaked clothes; one shoulder leaned against the wall as if it might be the only thing holding him up.

His ice blue eyes found John. "You knew I'd been assaulted as soon as you saw me."

All the air left John's lungs as his suspicions were confirmed.

"Lestrade. Has Emily been properly cared for?"

"Yeah, mate."

Sherlock nodded. "I'll check in with you in the morning. I look forward to questioning the madman responsible for the death of an innocent omega."

John almost spoke up, almost said there was no way he was letting Sherlock anywhere near that maniac, but Sherlock's glare shut him up.

"For the time being, if you'd give us some privacy," he continued.

John looked up at Lestrade who eyed them both before leaving the flat.

"You knew I'd been assaulted, John, so why are you upset now?"

John stared at the floor. "I should run you a bath."

"To wash him off me?"

"Yes," John growled.

Sherlock took one unsteady step backwards. He grabbed the doorframe for balance.

John noticed the apprehensive look on his friend's face and apologized. He apologized several times and buried his face in his hands.

He felt Sherlock's hand on his shoulder before he even noticed the detective was near, so loud was the sound of John's own blood pulsing in his head. "I know you would never hurt me."

"I want to bond with you," John said to the floor.

Sherlock chuckled and pulled his hand away. "My God, whatever for?"

"It's not funny, Sherlock." John's hands were in fists again. "What happened today is not funny."

"I know that."

John tried not to shout. "Then, why would you laugh?"

"Because you don't want to bond with me. You're just panicking." He slumped down into a kitchen chair. "You think that if I was bonded, I would have been safe from that lunatic, and you might be right. But then some other omega would have been tied to that bed in my place, and maybe that other omega wouldn't be able to …" He closed his eyes for a moment. " _Deal_ with what I went through as well as I can. Wouldn't have been able to talk to Emily, distract her for all those hours. John, don't you see? I was the perfect person for that lunatic to abduct, and I will not change who I am because someone thinks I'm wrong." He stared down at his battered wrists. "You don't want me to change, do you?"

John pulled up a chair in front of him. "No. Never." He took Sherlock's hand gently. "I'm just … I was scared I'd lost you. I can't lose you."

"You didn't."

John brought Sherlock's hand to his mouth in a single kiss. "I do love you in a way."

"I know. Just not in the way that means we should be bonded."

It was John's turn to smile. A little. "Years ago, you said you were a sociopath. That's getting harder and harder to believe anymore."

"I've learned a lot from you."

John leaned forward the pulled Sherlock into a hug. Although there was still the lovely lingering scent of Sherlock's heat, probably on his clothes, there was another smell, too: one John certainly did not like. "Please let me run you a bath," he said. "And you need food. I'll get you food."

He felt Sherlock's breath down the collar of his shirt. "Caring for me like a proper alpha, John?"

"No, idiot. Caring for you like a proper friend."


	2. Chapter 2

John spent a fitful night sleeping on the couch, Sherlock down the hall in his own bed exhausted from his ordeal, but clean tip to toe following a thorough bath. John rarely slept on the couch, but the alpha instinct said, "Stay close to your omega," even if Sherlock wasn't _his omega_.

Sherlock was no one's omega and probably never would be.

Still, the lingering scent of his induced heat floated like a mist throughout 221B, and when John woke, he frankly feared the smell would never go away. It would haunt him forever—that warm, welcoming perfume of his best friend.

Sun streaking through the window, John paced between their chairs and waited. He clenched his fists and unclenched them. He sputtered the occasional cuss word until Sherlock finally came out of his room in a navy blue suit, light blue shirt, and wool scarf already around his neck.

John wondered when Sherlock had snuck out to grab his scarf. How had he managed to grab the thing before John could see his neck that morning and the mouth-shaped bruises his attacker had left?

Sherlock must have noticed John staring. "Don't," he said.

"I want you to know I'm against this."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's not a vote." He reached for the door and almost fell over.

John balanced the consulting detective with a hand on his elbow. "Jesus, you can barely stand straight."

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment before opening them and blowing a slow breath out through parted lips. "I'm fine. And if I'm not fine, I've got you."

A sense of alpha pride washed over John and left him soaking with unfamiliar _want._ Of course he'd always been attracted to Sherlock. Of course. He'd have to be blind to not notice the way the man filled out a pair of tailored trousers. But it had always been fine, because Sherlock never went into heat.

Then, yesterday, he had, and John hoped he could forget it—the look of him, the smell of him, the weight of a vulnerable Sherlock Holmes in his lap. He needed to forget about it.

When he looked up, John felt like a butterfly pinned to the wall by Sherlock's steely gaze. "John?"

Hand still supporting his friend, John rubbed his thumb over the inside of Sherlock's elbow. "I really wish you wouldn't do this."

"I have to, John. I have to show this man that omegas can be strong. That we're not to be trifled with." He again moved for the door, nimble and balanced as usual, but revealing the bandage beneath the cuff of his shirt.

John stopped him from leaving with a hand on his shoulder. "How are your wrists?"

Sherlock tried to hide the wince. "Fine."

John pressed his lips together and prayed for patience. "Tell me the bloody truth, or you're not leaving this flat."

"For Christ's sake, John, I'm not a China doll!" he roared.

John stepped forward and poked a finger into Sherlock's chest. "You think I don't know that? You're the strongest man I've ever met, but that doesn't mean you can't still hurt."

Sherlock looked away, and John stepped back.

"And, okay, yes, I panicked last night. I'm panicking today! I can't …" He sniffed and stared at the floor. "You need to realize, Sherlock, you need to heal from this—physically and emotionally. Instead, we're rushing out this morning to talk to the man who …" John gestured to Sherlock's neck. "It's sixty degrees outside!"

Sherlock growled in annoyance but tore his scarf off anyway, which was … Well.

John's chest ached as he took in the sight of Sherlock's long, pale neck now mottled with dark purple bruises and, near his jaw, the angry outline of teeth. No, it wasn't a bonding mark (thank God; John would have murdered the alpha in question with his bare hands), but it was unforgiveable, this visual evidence of a helpless omega's assault.

Without thinking, John advanced on Sherlock, who took two stumbling steps away until his back hit the wall. John held him still by his hips, and Sherlock froze when John nosed at his neck. As if on instinct, though, Sherlock's head tilted back as John scented him, and John groaned his approval. He'd always thought Sherlock smelled like nothing, what with the suppressants keeping him out of heat, but he'd been wrong. Sherlock smelled like spicy cologne and something sweet, almost like pipe smoke.

Sherlock's Adam's apple hopped as he swallowed. "John?" An odd tremor in his deep voice made John pull back immediately to see Sherlock's hands curled into claws on the wall behind him.

John took a few steps back. "I'm feeling very …" He cleared his throat. "Territorial about you right now, but it'll pass, all right?"

Sherlock nodded and adjusted the lapels of his suit—although his cheeks had taken on a warm shade of pink. "I know." His brow furrowed. "Lestrade is going to smell you on me."

"Well, so is that murdering psychopath, so if you insist on going to talk to the bloody lunatic, at least give me …" He ran his palm over his face. "At least go in there smelling like you're loved. Just the way you are."

A sliver of a smile passed over Sherlock's face before he nodded. "Ready?"

John chuckled, shook his head, and followed his flat mate down the steps.


	3. Chapter 3

When they arrived at New Scotland Yard, Lestrade was waiting—but the alpha DI took a huge step away from Sherlock before casting a questioning glance at John. John just shook his head in response because he knew how it must seem: Sherlock showing up covered in John's alpha scent with bruises all over his neck.

Sherlock sighed. "Honestly, Lestrade, you saw the tape. You know the marks are from the monster you've got locked up. John is just feeling needy this morning."

"Needy?" John scoffed. "You—"

Sherlock, true to form, ignored him and kept walking. "Has he said anything?"

"He's been spouting off about responsible omega behavior. Privileged alpha rights. A bunch of political shite, if you ask me, but he's yet to give us any useful information." Lestrade ran a hand over the back of his head. "Look, Sherlock, he'll talk eventually, won't he? Guys like this love the attention. You don't need to talk to him, especially after …" He paused, and Sherlock shouted.

"What's the matter with everyone? Can no one finish a sentence today? Perhaps the odious man locked up in your cells will be able to have a coherent conversation."

John put a hand on Sherlock's arm and was surprised that his touch made the detective's eyebrows relax and his shoulders lower. He glanced at Lestrade. "Give us a minute?"

The DI nodded and gave them some space. John stepped right in front of Sherlock and took both his arms in his hands. He felt too warm, just like he had the day before, pumped full of heat-inducing Propanacor. Yes, Sherlock still had lingering traces of drugs in his system—tranquilizer included—but John suspected the warmth had more to do with his emotions.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm not a victim, John," he said quietly. "I don't mean to be considered one. Not by you, and not by Geoff."

"Greg."

Sherlock laughed—a small, soft sound—and leaned his forehead down against John's. They didn't act like this. _They never acted like this._ But, suddenly, John wanted to; he adored the unexpected feel of Sherlock's breath on his face.

However, John knew this wasn't the Sherlock he knew. This was Sherlock post-heat and clingy. This was the omega side that Sherlock tried to hide, and John would not take advantage. He stood perfectly still and waited for the consulting detective to put on his tough veneer. He waited with their foreheads pressed together, his hands on Sherlock's arms.

Sherlock pulled back a moment later, and there he was: the ice cold supposed sociopath with a gaze like a gunshot. "Lestrade!" He turned away from John, and together, they made their way to the interrogation room where their killer waited.

Lestrade handed John a file as they stood, the three friends, and stared at a large, bald-headed alpha who looked about twice John's body weight. Not that John was intimidated. In that moment, his rage made him feel ten feet tall.

"His name is Saul West," the DI said. "He's a delivery driver for a flower company. Was charged with assault a year ago by his omega girlfriend but never convicted."

"Hmm," Sherlock said and made for the door.

John almost dropped the file in his rush to grab his friend. "Where are you going?"

"To question a murderer."

"Right. Not without me."

Sherlock pulled his arm away from John's grip and put his hand on the wall in an effort to hide his still missing equilibrium. The blue-green glare he shot John was enough to make the doctor freeze, even if his fingers did twitch at his sides.

"Yes," Sherlock said. "I'm going in without you. Another alpha in the room will only serve as a distraction, especially since I smell of you. West's responses will be intended to rile you, not give us factual information."

John shook his head.

"He is handcuffed to the table, John. He's not a threat to me. Let me work."

John stared through glass at the bald man with big muscles.

"I don't need your permission."

"Then, what are you waiting for?" John snapped.

Sherlock tilted his head. "I'm not doing this to hurt you. I need to stop men like Saul West. For omegas like Emily and … Violet."

John hadn't known the dead female omega's name.

"I'll be all right."

John nodded and watched his friend spin around, step into the brightly lit interrogation room, and close the door behind him. He felt Lestrade glance his way as they both took position at the one-way mirror, but John didn't look back.

West's head shot up at the new arrival in the room, and his dark eyes stared at Sherlock. "Well. You smell different, my pretty thing."

From where John stood, he could see Sherlock smirk. "Miss me?"

"Oh, yeah." West leaned back in his metal chair, handcuffs rattling where they attached to the table. "Your skin smells sweet as honey with a heat coming on, and ain't your neck the prettiest shade of purple today? Huh. Wish I still had that video I made so I could replay all those desperate sounds you were makin' while I was bitin' and suckin' on you."

John blinked and took a steadying breath through his nose.

"Didn't know you had an alpha, though. You reek of 'im right now. Can't be much of a man if he lets you take suppressants."

"More of a man than you," Sherlock drawled as he took a seat across from West.

West snickered. "I'm man enough to enjoy that sinful mouth of yours." He licked his lips, and, behind the mirror, Lestrade had to grab John's arm to keep him from flying into the room.

"The only way you can hold an omega's attention is by handcuffing one to a bed and pumping them full of drugs. That's what started all this, isn't it? The omega female you assaulted—your girlfriend—she was going to leave you, wasn't she? Found an alpha who better fulfilled her needs?"

West leaned forward, as did John. "You don't know nothin' about that."

"She rejected you, so you hurt her," Sherlock said, hands folded calmly in front of him. John couldn't see Sherlock's face from where he stood, but he recognized the pose: the consulting detective was poised to strike. "But that wasn't enough. She made you hate all omegas but independent omegas most of all. Unbonded, independent omegas who didn't need an alpha to give them children, fulfill their lives. Your hatred became an obsession."

West shook his head. "You deserve it. Every one of you."

"Deserve to be killed?"

"Exterminated," West spat. "A man like you should _belong_ to a man like me. Imagine how 'appy I was to see your name on that suppressants list. Couldn't wait to get my hands on you. The great Sherlock Holmes, a wasted omega." The chair creaked when he moved. "I seen you in the papers, on the news, solving your cases with that little alpha doctor riding your coattails—when all Doctor Watson really wants is to see you writhing on his cock."

John ground his teeth. "Lestrade …"

"Leave it," the DI whispered. "Sherlock's under his skin."

"Where did you get the list of omegas on suppressants?" Sherlock asked.

West ignored the question and leaned forward in his seat. "Don't you see the way he looks at you? Have to be blind not to notice he wants you, wants to make you beg and scream. Bond with you. Make you his pretty pet forever."

Sherlock leaned away, shoulders relaxed. "You don't hear too much about alphas with erectile dysfunction, Mr. West. It's laughable really. You must have a very discreet pharmacist."

West blinked. "What are you on about?"

"Is that why she left you, or did it start happening after your girlfriend went away?"

"Nah, you don't know what you're talking about."

"You think I didn't notice?" Sherlock continued. "During your awkward fumblings yesterday, you never gained an erection."

West tsked. "You don't remember nothin'. You were drugged."

"I remember." Sherlock's voice rumbled through the room, and John felt like his throat was closing up. Sherlock leaned closer to West. "I remember all of it."

John watched West's gaze darken even further with anger. Through the glass, John even imagined he could hear the sound of a hatred-soaked swallow.

Sherlock tapped his finger on the tabletop. "Now, I could keep your physiological failings out of the papers if you tell me where you got your list of names. After all, wouldn't want word getting out about your problem, because what kind of a big, brave _alpha_ … can't … get it … up?"

John frankly fought the urge to applaud.


	4. Chapter 4

It was the discreet pharmacist, of course, who gave West the list of unbonded omegas on suppressants—a leap Sherlock said he'd already made but confirmed following his threat to their murderer's alpha status. Of course, as soon as Sherlock rejoined John and Lestrade outside the interrogation room, he promptly told Lestrade to arrest the pharmacist. And also spread word far and wide that Saul West was an alpha with erectile dysfunction.

When John chuckled, Sherlock glanced down at him. "No need to keep my word to someone so pathetic."

John agreed—and wanted to get Sherlock back home immediately to check his injuries. However, Sherlock had other ideas. He wanted to visit Emily in the omega hospital. She was West's other surviving victim. An omega named Violet had not been so lucky.

On the drive over, Sherlock called in a favor. Usually, alphas weren't allowed in omega hospitals for obvious reasons. Who knew if one might snap and go into rut? In the taxi, Sherlock said, quite easily, "I will be bringing my mate, and our entry is not to be impeded."

His _mate._ How could one, simple word make John's heart beat so fast, even if it wasn't technically true? He looked at his best friend—busy texting—handsome as always, albeit eyes red with his need for more rest. John's alpha scent from his earlier caress now waned on Sherlock's skin, and even though a part of John wanted to rub his face against the consulting detective's neck, he didn't. Instead, he brushed back a single black curl from the center of Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock froze at the minute touch but went right back to texting as soon as John's hand pulled away.

Emily was up on the fourth floor of the hospital. John rapidly remembered why omegas and alphas had different hospitals. The place sang with the scent of the unbonded, which usually would have made John at least a little excited. For some reason, that day, he felt nothing.

He realized with a start that he felt nothing because the only omega he now wanted was …. _Oh, shit._

John almost fell over as they stepped out of the elevator.

Sherlock caught him by the elbow. "John?"

John stared up into his friend's red-edged eyes. "It's nothing." He shook his head. "Nothing."

Sherlock studied his face.

"I'm fine," John said lightly. "Just lost my balance." _And just realized I love you. Really, really love you. Shit._

Sherlock nodded and kept moving as John continued berating himself.

 _If only I hadn't smelled you in heat. If only you weren't acting so adorably clingy. If only Saul West hadn't said all those things about how much I want you._

John froze in the hospital hallway because he'd almost forgotten all those things West had said. The words echoed in John's head: _"He wants to bond with you, don't he? Make you his pretty pet forever."_ There was no way in hell Sherlock had forgotten all that, so why hadn't he mentioned it?

Yet. He hadn't mentioned it yet.

Within the last twenty-four hours, things had changed, and, for John, they would never be the same.

Before he could have a further conniption, though, Sherlock turned left ahead of him. John hurried to catch up and stepped into a well-lit hospital room where a small, battered female omega rested, surrounded by IVs and beeping machines. Sherlock honestly should have still been in a hospital, too, John thought, although he did seem stronger than he had that morning.

The young woman smiled weakly when she saw Sherlock. "Hey," she said.

Sherlock took her hand. "Hello."

Her blonde hair circled her head like a limp halo. "What on Earth are you doing walking around, Sherlock? You should be in bed." Her quiet voice cracked.

"I have John to keep me standing."

John stood up a bit taller at that, and Emily's light blue eyes noticed him in the doorway.

"John." She waved him closer and smiled as she reached up with her free hand to clasp his. "Sherlock said you would find us."

John swallowed down what could have easily been the beginning of tears. Of course Sherlock would say something like that. His faith in John was sometimes alarming.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock asked.

"Weak." She sniffed. "I can't sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I'm back …"

Sherlock nodded. "It'll pass."

A tear rolled down her pale cheek. "I couldn't have survived without you."

Sherlock, in a rare show of kindness, wiped the tear away, and John fought the urge to wrap the consulting detective in a hug.

Emily turned her attention to John. "Sherlock told me the story of how you met. I think it's one of his favorite stories. He tells it with such enthusiasm." She smiled. "Of course, I really like the story about Sherlock going to Buckingham Palace in a sheet, too."

John looked fondly at his friend. "Could have given the queen a coronary."

Emily laughed, joined a moment later by Sherlock's rumbling chuckle.

The young woman squeezed John's hand. "I'm so glad I got to meet you, John. You're his hero."

John bit the inside of his cheek to keep his eyes from leaking.

"Sherlock, what happened to the man who did this to us?"

"He's going to jail forever. Probable accidental death within the first month of incarceration."

Emily's eyebrows rose. "What did we talk about? Detectives aren't supposed to kill people."

"Only bad people."

She rolled her eyes toward John. "Will you keep him in check, please?"

John chuckled. "Impossible."

"No one is ever going to hurt you again," Sherlock whispered to the tiny omega who closely resembled a forest sprite. "Now, promise me you'll sleep."

She nodded. "Promise you'll come see me again?"

"Yes."

"And John, too?"

"Of course," Sherlock said.

Emily squeezed John's hand. "Our hero."

In the elevator, John stumbled over his words.

"Yes?" Sherlock emphasized the S until it sounded like a hiss.

"That was …" John struggled to collect himself. "I've never seen you like that with anyone."

"Like what?"

"Well, beyond the threat of having a man murdered in prison, you were … sweet."

Sherlock scoffed. "I am never sweet."

"Apparently, you are."

"It's just the-the … I mean the—"

"You also never stutter." John smirked as they exited the elevator and walked through the foyer.

"Residual drugs in my system, John."

Wind whipped at them as they stepped out onto the warm London street, and John caught a mouthful of Sherlock's smell again—not the omega-in-heat perfume that sent his baser instincts into a tailspin but the sweet-smoky smell that was Sherlock. Sherlock the man, not the omega.

"Perhaps Lestrade has a new case for us."

"No, we're going home."

"John, I—"

John turned to face his friend, eyes the color of an iceberg in the afternoon sun. "Sherlock Holmes, the only reason you're not in that hospital is because you demanded to go home last night. You should be in that hospital, but since you're not and I'm your doctor, your doctor says you're going home and getting some bloody rest."

An odd expression crossed Sherlock's face, one John barely recognized.

Apprehension. Sherlock was nervous to go home.

"What's wrong?" John asked.

"Nothing." Sherlock looked away and chewed on his top lip before hailing a cab.


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock climbed the stairs at Baker Street two at a time, as usual, and John made his own slow ascent—only to realize immediately that the flat still smelled vaguely of Sherlock's heat. John felt like his eyes vibrated in his head as he strode across the room and threw open the window.

"John?" Sherlock asked from behind him.

"It's … nothing. Bathroom. Let me change the bandages on your wrists, yeah?"

Sherlock blinked at him.

John lowered his brows in response.

Slowly, Sherlock removed his suit coat and hung it near the door. John watched him unbutton the cuffs of his shirt—until John realized he was staring and looked away.

The bathroom was much too small. John wondered when the bathroom had gotten so small? Sherlock seemed to loom over him as they stood there, facing each other near the sink. Even with John busy playing doctor, his fingers shook every time he touched the bruised, bare skin of his flat mate's wrists, and the way Sherlock stood there seemed tense—a six-foot-tall coiled spring.

"John?"

He exhaled loudly through his nose. "Yes?"

"Is it true what he said?"

John stopped moving and closed his eyes. He blinked quickly. "Who?" He looked up to find a deep wrinkle of doubt between Sherlock's eyes.

"Do you … find me attractive?"

John chuckled and finished bandaging the detective's wrist. "Everyone finds you attractive, you git."

"I don't care about everyone. I care about …" He sighed and put his hands on his hips. "Now _I_ can't finish sentences. Going into heat always did make me an idiot."

John leaned against the sink. "Is that why you don't … That's why you take the suppressants? Because going into heat affects your mind?"

"Also because I don't like being controlled by an alpha."

"You've been with one then? An alpha?"

Sherlock looked away. "Yes."

John's chest felt much too tiny for his heart and the way it thumped like an auditorium full of drums. He stared at the ceiling in an effort to block out the image of someone else with Sherlock—some other man, some other alpha—with his hands on Sherlock's body, fingers in his hair, fulfilling his every omega need.

"That bothers you," Sherlock said. "Like the scent of Saul West on my skin bothered you. Why?"

He shrugged. "I don't want you smelling like someone else."

"You'd prefer if I smelled like you."

John shook his head, but it wasn't in refusal.

When Sherlock leaned forward and kissed him, John stepped back. "Sherlock. No."

The consulting detective stepped back, too, face titled toward the floor. Quietly, barely above a whisper, he muttered, "Please?"

John's eyes widened as he looked up at the strikingly beautiful omega within arm's reach—the omega who wanted what exactly? Wanted him? They'd lived together for years, and Sherlock had never made a single move. Of course, he did have a lack of respect for John's personal space, but John thought that was just Sherlock being Sherlock. Sure, he'd been extra touchy feely since the kidnapping—since his induced heat—but …

John felt his body battle his mind, and his mind won. "You wouldn't want anything from me if you weren't recovering from a heat, Sherlock."

Sherlock laughed once, but he didn't sound amused. His voice echoed around the small space. "Of course I would. Just because I'm on suppressants does not mean I'm averse to pleasure. You have proven yourself to me time and again, never more so than last night when you did not take advantage of a defenseless omega in heat. You would never take advantage of me, John, and I am not asking you to, but you said that you love me _in a way_ so I think that's …good." His shoulders slumped. "I merely want to feel you. For a moment. And it's not the drugs. It's you. You're not like other alphas. The things Saul West said—those hateful things—they're not you, even if you do feel an attraction to me. You would never hold me down or hurt me, so maybe for a moment you will kindly allow me the attentions of an alpha who could treat me gently."

John stepped forward immediately and put one steadying hand on Sherlock's arm, the other on the back of his neck. He pressed their foreheads together and told Sherlock to, "Breathe. Just breathe."

Sherlock's hands curled into the front of John's shirt as he did as told.

"Other alphas have hurt you?"

"They think it's amusing, I assume, to control me. Mother always said I should have been born an alpha. Instead I'm expected to be weak and pretty and subservient."

"Well. You are one of those things."

Sherlock's nose nudged at John's. "Please. If only for a moment."

He ran his thumb over Sherlock's cheek. "I'm afraid I won't be able to stop."

Sherlock's lips touched John's skin as he spoke. "You will. I trust you."

John leaned in slowly and danced a single kiss across his best friend's mouth before going in for a second and third until Sherlock groaned and licked at John's lips. Mouths now open, tongues vying for dominance, John lunged forward. A bottle of antiseptic tipped over into the sink as Sherlock fell backwards against the wall. John kept him upright with his hands in Sherlock's hair—finally, tangled in those beautiful curls. The air was awash with the sound of their panting breaths and hands clawing at fabric.

After a moment of shamelessly sucking on Sherlock's tongue, John pulled his lips away and shoved his nose against his flat mate's neck. "Jesus, your heat … I can taste it on you."

"You know I can't give you that," Sherlock gasped as he turned his head to give John better access.

"I'm not asking you to." He licked at the bruises left from West's assault. "No. I just want to touch you, taste you."

"Yes."

He pressed open-mouthed kisses over all remnants of black and blue. "I don't love you _in a way_ , Sherlock. I love you, God, I love you more than anything."

"What?" Sherlock grabbed onto John's shoulders and pushed him back too far for kissing.

John licked his top lip, flavored sweet by Sherlock's skin. "I love you."

Sherlock's expression fell. He licked his own lips. "Do you know what you smell like, John? Taste like?"

"No."

He paused. "Sanctuary."

John tried to move closer, but Sherlock's hands kept him away. "What did I do wrong? Sherlock?"

Before he could answer, John heard the sound of a phone vibrating. Sherlock reached in his trouser pocket and answered. "What is it, Lestrade?" As he listened, the strange sadness in his eyes was replaced by an expression John had seen before: rage. "I'll be there," he said and hung up. He shoved John out of his way as he left the bathroom, but John was quick to follow.

"Sherlock, what's happened?"

In the living room, the consulting detective paused only to put on his jacket. "Emily has been abducted from the hospital. Saul West is claiming responsibility from behind bars."


	6. Chapter 6

John chased Sherlock into the entrance of New Scotland Yard and finally said what had been boiling out his pores on the taxi ride over. He pulled roughly on Sherlock's arm and spun the lanky detective around.

"He's only doing this to get to you!"

"Yes, John." He wrenched his arm away. "I'm not an idiot!"

"Never said you were—although it's patently idiotic to go running into the fray with no concern for your own well-being, which you do. _All the time!"_

Sherlock literally growled down at him, and people coming and going turned to look.

The alpha in John flared. He had the sudden yearning to drop Sherlock to the ground and pin him until he calmed down. Of course, John knew that move would be the worst possible course of action considering Sherlock's inability to behave like a normal omega … which was a big part of what John loved about him: that toughness, that fight.

John held up one hand. "All right." He moved closer and took a gentle hold on one of Sherlock's suit lapels. "We will find her, but you have to promise me you won't leave my side."

"Fine," Sherlock rumbled. "Promise you won't leave mine."

John shook his head. "It's the same thing."

The consulting detective glared.

"Fine. I won't leave your side either."

Sherlock pushed John's hand away. "Despicable as it might be for your _alpha sensibilities_ , you get just as injured as me on cases, if not more so." He turned away and kept walking.

"Alpha …" John hurried to catch up. This time, he didn't hesitate to use his dominant strength as he took hold of Sherlock's arm and shoved his back against the nearest wall. Sherlock made a sound of protest, but John pointed up at him. "No. You listen now. This fight is not about our physiology. It's about you and me and that's all. I, John, don't want you, Sherlock, getting hurt, not because you're some weak omega but because you're _you_. Get that through your thick skull."

Sherlock pushed him away so hard that John took a stumbling step to remain upright. "We don't have time for this." When he hurried away, John let him—but stayed close behind.

Despite John's scent all over Sherlock, Lestrade didn't blink. Saul West waited, handcuffed and smiling, behind the one-sided mirror. He whistled occasionally: shrill, high-pitched chords that echoed like screams through the small interrogation space.

The DI ran a hand through his white-gray hair. "He's not talking."

"We don't need him," Sherlock said. "Where's the surveillance tape from the hospital?"

Lestrade gestured to a computer on a nearby desk, and the three men crowded around. The security tape was shaky at best, but at least it was a clear shot of the hospital entrance. John watched a young woman chatting as she pushed Emily in a wheelchair toward a waiting car. It was impossible to miss the white-blonde of the petite omega's hair in the bright sunlight, and the woman pushing the wheelchair looked similar. Probably a sister or something, John thought.

Then, a tall man in a hooded sweatshirt approached—and got much too close. There was practically no sign of struggle as both Emily and her companion appeared to lose consciousness before being shoveled into the waiting car. The women both inside, the man climbed in, too, and drove off in the car intended for Emily.

Sherlock started talking immediately. "He had to wait until she was being discharged, which means he must be an alpha. They never would have allowed him into the omega hospital, so he waits outside, uses the same tranquilizer as Saul West, and drives off in Emily's sister's car."

"How'd you know it was her sister?" Lestrade asked.

"Obvious. They look almost identical. Omega, too, I'd wager. He used her car so that we wouldn't know what his own vehicle looks like, which leads me to believe his own vehicle is easily recognizable." Sherlock closed his eyes.

"Sherlock?" John reached out to touch him but stopped.

"Yesterday morning, I was abducted outside Baker Street, and no one saw a thing. How? A sting on my neck, hands on my shoulders, and nothing." His bright blue eyes sprung open. "Why did no one see?"

John shrugged. "Blocked view?"

"Yes, John. Yes."

John tried not to think of that same word uttered not an hour before under much different circumstances. He could almost still taste Sherlock on his tongue.

Sherlock's gaze snapped to West, who looked oh-so-pleased with himself, despite being handcuffed to a table. "Something big enough to fit both people and supplies." Sherlock inhaled sharply. "Saul West. Delivery driver for a flower company." He spun on Lestrade. "Which company?"

The DI stared at Sherlock for a few beats before suddenly realizing … "Shit." He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed.

John breathed out a sigh. He hadn't noticed he'd been holding his breath.

From behind the glass, West began saying Sherlock's name in a singsong rhythm. "Sher … lock. Sher … lock. I can smell you from here, you filthy thing! You won't find her in time, gorgeous! She's probably dead already!" He spat on the table and stared at the mirror as if he could see right through.

Sherlock stared back, his chest rising and falling as if he'd just run a mile. John did not reach out to offer comfort, but he kept an eye. Very rarely did his flat mate look liable to commit murder, but he did that day. The way his long fingers twitched at his sides made John want to hide all sharp objects.

Lestrade spoke, phone still in-hand. "West's employer has GPS in all their delivery trucks. All of 'em are accounted for. Except one."

Ten minutes later, John and Sherlock stood behind Lestrade and his team in front of a warehouse eerily similar to the one they'd pulled Sherlock out of not twenty-four hours earlier.

Lestrade held his hands out in front of him like he was putting up an invisible wall. "You are not going in."

Sherlock's lips parted, and he pressed his tongue to the bottom of his top teeth. John recognized the look: Sherlock literally struggling to keep his mouth shut.

Lestrade continued: "Now, our man on the roof can see Emily and her sister inside, but there's no sign of their abductor. We'll make a full sweep and hopefully find him, but for now, you two don't move. You stay out of our way. John?"

John glanced at Sherlock. "Yeah. Okay."

Lestrade nodded at them both before barking orders. Quickly, things started happening. A team of black-clad cops mobilized while John and Sherlock lingered behind a corner, away from the action.

Sherlock still seemed out of breath, blinking more than strictly necessary.

"She's going to be fine," John said.

Sherlock nodded, even though John wasn't even sure he'd heard.

The sun was slowly setting toward the end of the alley, taking with it the warmth of the day—and what a day. John rested his head back against brick and tried to shake off the feeling that his life had changed, perhaps not for the better. Something had gone terribly wrong back at Baker Street, but what? What had he done to make Sherlock pull away? John wiped his nose, trying to dislodge the smell of a nearby dumpster.

Which was when he noticed the scent of an unfamiliar alpha a moment too late.

John turned, ready to fight, but a jarring pain on the side of his skull sent him to his knees. A second later, he heard a mishmash of noise: something metal hitting the ground … Sherlock saying his name … a fist hitting flesh …

He tried to shake away the pain and overwhelming dizziness. A warm wetness dripped down John's nose, which was when he realized he was bleeding. From his crouched position, he turned slightly, just enough to see Sherlock on his back with a massive alpha straddling his chest.

It was obviously the tall man from the security tape: same height, same hoodie. Although the alpha's nose bled—Sherlock would never go down without a fight—he looked pleased as he pressed his knees against Sherlock's biceps, pinning him to the pavement. One of his huge, alpha hands covered Sherlock's mouth as he leaned closer.

"You're awfully strong for an omega," the alpha said. "But not strong enough."

Sherlock's voice came out muffled against his attacker's palm as he fought to lift his shoulders off the ground.

The alpha practically purred. "I like feeling you struggle. Would be fun to wrestle in your sheets, but don't got time for that. West just sent me to kill you." With the hand not covering Sherlock's mouth, he pulled a knife from the back of his pants. "Waste to kill something so lovely, but needs must, heh?" The alpha lifted the knife just as John's equilibrium returned enough for him to lunge forward and tackle the man who meant to destroy the most important thing in the good doctor's life.

Still woozy, John had little understanding of what was happening as he fought—tooth and nail—to tear another alpha to shreds. There was the flash of angry eyes, the baring of teeth. Hands pounded and tore as the two men tumbled across concrete. John's wrath made the whole world red, but it also robbed him of clarity. Just as John saw the sunset reflected in metal, he realized he'd forgotten about the knife. He realized he was about to die.

Only then, he didn't. His assailant groaned and fell sideways, knocked out. Above him, Sherlock stood, a rusty tool in his grip. "I'm strong enough to swing a wrench apparently," he said to the unconscious villain on the ground before dropping his weapon and kneeling next to John. He grabbed John's head and stared at it. "You're bleeding."

John reached up and touched the side of Sherlock's mouth. "So are you."

Sherlock wiped the back of his hand over his lip, smearing red across pale skin. "I'm fine."

"Are you though?" John pushed himself up to sitting.

John saw it—a slight movement of Sherlock's head, a reflexive "No"—but it was gone the next moment, especially when Lestrade found them.

Emily was all right. Her sister was all right. They weren't even injured, although Sherlock made a promise to check on her the following morning.

The DI berated John and Sherlock on the drive back to New Scotland Yard. ( _Honestly, it's like trouble seeks you out … Why do I even_ try _to keep you two safe? … You know, from now on, just do whatever the bloody hell you want …_ )

By the time they got upstairs, where Saul West waited, Sherlock's lip had stopped bleeding. John held a towel to the gash on his forehead but refused medical attention. (Lestrade: _Oh, perfect, now he's rubbing off on you …)_

Sherlock walked into the interrogation room without preamble, and John let him—his brave omega. He winced. Sherlock wasn't his, and it was becoming wildly apparent he never would be.

There was a moment of disappointment on West's face. The overhead lights reflected off his bald head as he leaned back in his chair. "Well. Triumphed again? Hmm. Gonna have to try harder to kill you."

Sherlock rested his hands on the table and leaned forward. "Not if you're dead."

"Better be careful. Don't want that kind of thing on tape."

Sherlock slid into the seat across from West. "This conversation isn't being recorded."

John looked at Lestrade, who made a point to look nowhere near John.

Sherlock folded his hands under his chin. "I don't need you to tell me you talked your coworker into helping you. I already know that. You previously admitted you were behind Emily's abduction, so I require no further confessions from you. I merely came to tell you your life is over. Maybe there will be something in your food. A little known chemical compound rubbed on your clothing. Suffocation in your sleep. Who knows? But do know this: you don't have long."

West, two shades paler, struggled to smirk. "You can't make threats like that." He gestured to the mirror. "People are listening!"

"Yes. My people." Sherlock stood and spoke as he buttoned his suit coat. "I don't know what you were thinking, coming after me, but you shouldn't have."

West tried to stand, still tethered to the table. He stood there, hunched over, face red with rage. "This isn't over! Someone's gonna put you in your place, Sherlock Holmes!" He bellowed, "There will always be alphas like me!"

Sherlock paused at the door. "Yes. Good thing there will also always be alphas like John Watson."

As Sherlock slammed the door on a screaming Saul West, John tried to swallow the sudden urge to wrap the consulting detective in his arms. In that moment, it was all John wanted: to hold Sherlock, kiss him, call him "Mine."

Sherlock leaned against the closed door and sighed. He looked so miserable, so tired, as he looked up at John and said, "Home?"


	7. Chapter 7

When they arrived back at 221B, John's head ached, which was only exacerbated when he slammed the door in his rush to get inside and talk to his flat mate. However, Sherlock spun around at the sound of the door closing so suddenly, eyes wide and hands held in front of him as if warding off an attack.

John froze. "Sherlock?"

The great consulting detective melted down into his chair, hands over his face. His shoulders lifted and lowered, as he appeared to be taking slow, deep breaths. John cautiously knelt in front of him and reached up to touch Sherlock's wrists.

"Are you all right?"

Sherlock dropped his hands and looked toward the darkened fireplace. Even in the dim light of evening, John could see his friend's eyes were wet and red. "For years, I've tried to ignore your alpha status, and one elitist idiot goes and ruins everything."

Still kneeling, John rested his hand on Sherlock's knee. "Forget about him."

Sherlock almost knocked John over when he stood and walked toward the windows. "How can I? He has changed everything we ever had."

John stood, too, if only to be able to move closer. "Perhaps for the better?"

"No, John!" He shook his head. The streetlights outside backlit his black hair as he stared at the floor and chewed on his bottom lip. "No."

Like a punch to the gut—or wrench to the head—John began to understand why Sherlock had shoved him away in the bathroom that afternoon. Why their heated kisses had made Sherlock flee and not look back.

Despite a quick snog, Sherlock apparently wasn't interested in a relationship John, which made sense really. John was ordinary, whereas Sherlock Holmes was an omega so beautiful, he could probably bring about world peace if he put his mind to it. Or, just as easily, become a Helen of Troy and cause another world war.

Sherlock sighed. "Please don't love me, John."

"I understand."

Sherlock glared at him. "Oh, for God's sake, stop feeling bad for yourself. I'm trying to …" His voice softened. "I'm trying to help you."

John lifted an eyebrow. "How exactly?"

"I can't give you what you need. What you deserve. You're the kindest and most honorable alpha I've ever met, and you deserve a mate who will go into heat. A mate who will give you children and a stable life. I can't give you any of that, John, so you need to stop loving me and find someone else."

John blinked a couple times. "There is no one else."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Sherlock …" John rubbed his eyes. "Okay, wait. Do you like being with me?"

"Obviously."

"No, I mean … Did you like kissing me today?"

Sherlock licked his bottom lip as if in memory—an unconscious movement John found so sensual, he almost lunged forward to catch that tongue. "Of course."

John took a hesitant step forward. "Do you like when I touch you?"

A wrinkle appeared between Sherlock's brows as he frowned and looked at the floor.

"Hey, I'm not trying to make you sad. I just need to know if you want me."

"Of course I want you," Sherlock whispered. "I've always thought of you as my alpha."

John struggled to swallow around the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. He reached out and squeezed Sherlock's arm. "I never dared think of you as my omega. Always kind of thought of you as out of my league."

Sherlock huffed. "Honestly. Who in their right mind would ever want me?"

"I do." John smiled.

"No, you can't. I won't let you."

"It's not really your place to dictate my feelings."

"You deserve better."

John took a couple steps away and started shouting. "Stop telling me what I deserve, Sherlock! So you won't go into heat. So bloody what? Kissing you earlier was one of the hottest things I've ever done, and you weren't in heat. I don't care about Sherlock the omega, I care about Sherlock the man, you cock! The man who tries not to be a hero but is one every day. The man whose favorite stories are about us. The man who looks about ten years old when he wakes up in the morning." John smiled. "The brilliant man who's saved my life more times than I can count. That's the man I love. So it took something horrible for me to realize it. So what? All I can say is, the nine hours you were missing were the worst nine hours of my life. It wasn't the scent of your heat that made me realize how much I love you; it was the thought of losing you." He stood tall and lifted his chin. "So will you have me?"

Sherlock took a step closer. "Even if I can't give you everything you need?"

"You are everything I need. Just you."

Sherlock leaned his forehead against John's and, as if three simple words could solve any and all complications, whispered, "Come to bed."

John leaned forward and kissed Sherlock once, lightly. "All right, but no funny business."

Sherlock chuckled in question.

"I'm serious. There's something I want to talk to you about."

Sherlock groaned. "Haven't we talked enough?"

"Come on." John took Sherlock's hand and dragged him down the hallway to his bedroom. Once there, he removed Sherlock's suit coat and hung it over the back of a chair before kicking off his shoes and gesturing for Sherlock to do the same. The consulting detective lowered his eyebrows but did as bid before both men laid down in Sherlock's bed on their sides facing each other.

Sherlock reached forward and took John's hand before closing his eyes and muttering, "What now?"

"Tell me about the alphas."

Sherlock's eyes, dark in the lamplight, flew open.

"Tell me about the men who made you think a life of suppressants was your only option."

"I don't want to talk about them."

John squeezed Sherlock's hand. "I need you to. I need to understand. I never want to upset you, so I need to know how they did."

Instead of answering, Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his lips—hard and hungry—against John's. The tactic worked at first. John's mind went blank as he tangled his fingers in Sherlock's curls and pulled the omega ever closer. However, John's mind had a way of fighting his alpha instincts. He tugged Sherlock back by his hair … and Sherlock's mouth fell open on an obscene groan that made John tingle all the way to his toes.

"Jesus," John hissed. "God, you're so bloody beautiful, you're going to kill me."

"Hardly." Sherlock's hands tugged at the fabric of John's shirt.

"Hey, no." John sat up a bit, looming over his flat mate. "Talk to me, love. Please."

Sherlock rolled onto his back and spoke to the ceiling. "The first time I had sex with an alpha, I was sixteen, taking a summer class at university. He was my professor, and I couldn't …" He shook his head. "I suppose I was too young, because even when I invited him to share my heat, it hurt. He liked that it hurt. My discomfort got him off." He folded his hands on his chest and looked at anything but John. "Our relationship lasted three heats. Then, for two years, I avoided alphas until I met Victor. Upperclassman. But he liked me. Really. I don't know why."

"I could write you a list."

Sherlock smiled. "He taught me that sex could be … good. He wanted to bond, but I refused. Things turned badly. He pinned me down and …"

John could almost watch Sherlock sinking away, perhaps hiding in his Mind Palace.

Then, he kept talking. "I wasn't in heat, so I couldn't accommodate him properly. I was hospitalized, and Victor went away."

John had to clench his teeth to keep from leaping out of bed, calling Mycroft, and finding out exactly what had happened to Victor so that he could murder the bastard.

"There were a few others while I was university, but those men aren't the only reason I'm on suppressants, John. I can't think when I'm in heat, and it's hateful. I need to be able to think. What am I without my mind?"

John reached out and put his hand on Sherlock's chest. "You're this. Deny it all you want, but you've the biggest heart of any man I know, Sherlock Holmes."

"No. I believe that honor belongs to you, John."

He leaned down and rubbed their noses together. "I love you, and I will never hurt you."

"I don't mind if you tug my hair …"

John laughed. "Right. Well. I'll never ask you to be something you're not."

"Thank you."

"Now." John straddled Sherlock's hips and pressed a single kiss to the side of his neck. "What do you want?"

Sherlock leaned his head back: a silent entreaty for more. "I want to stop talking."


	8. Chapter 8

"I want to stop talking," Sherlock said.

So did John. Oh, did John ever want to just stop talking. It seemed as though they'd been talking in circles for the last twenty-four hours, but now, here they were, in Sherlock's bed—the bed that, if John paid extra attention, still carried lingering echoes of the detective's heat.

Not that it mattered. John wanted Sherlock, omega or not, heat or not. Straddling Sherlock's hips, John paused at the realization that he was being offered exactly what he wanted. How often in life was that true?

"John."

"Mm?"

"Stop. Thinking."

John chuckled, leaned forward, and rested his hands on either side of Sherlock's head. "That's funny coming from you."

Sherlock smiled and pulled on the front of John's shirt. John caught himself on his elbows before he could crush the thin omega. "What are you waiting for?" Sherlock whispered.

"To wake up …"

Their noses brushed when Sherlock shook his head. "This isn't a dream."

John kissed him—hard, slow, wet. Maybe the sweetness from earlier wasn't some remnant of Sherlock's heat, because he still tasted sweet to John. Maybe Sherlock just naturally tasted of honey and clove. Their kisses soon increased in speed as hands tugged at clothes.

John yelped when Sherlock's cold hands reached under his shirt and ran up his lower back, which made Sherlock chuckle. "Sorry."

"Cold hands, warm heart?"

"I'd be warm everywhere if you would get on with it."

John scoffed but took the bait, reaching for the buttons on Sherlock's shirt. Button after button revealed more and more skin until John was finally free to swoop down and lick from the center of Sherlock's pecs up to the base of his neck—which made the detective gasp and then cover his mouth as though embarrassed.

John tugged the offending hand away. "Oh, no, no. Don't even think about being quiet. Your voice is one of the damn sexiest things about you, and I won't have it held captive."

Dialogue rapidly went the way of their remaining clothes, especially since John couldn't think straight with a surprisingly tender naked omega kissing and caressing every inch of his body. He did his best to be gentle in return, battling the alpha instinct that screamed _take._ The closest he allowed himself to his inner alpha was the hair pulling, which admittedly was almost enough. Sherlock did indeed love having his hair pulled if his rumbling cries were anything to go by. Still, John held back until Sherlock stopped touching him.

John's head flew up from the pillow. "What?"

Sherlock managed to look annoyed even in nothing but his skin and a surprisingly impressive erection for an omega. Apparently Mummy Holmes was right: her youngest should have been born an alpha. "John. You care for me just the way I am, do you not?"

John leaned up on his elbows. "Of course I do. You're perfect."

"Well, I love you the way you are and—"

John grinned. "You love me?"

"Was that not … Oh. I never said it. Yes, I … love you."

"Did that hurt coming out?"

Sherlock's eyebrows lowered at John's obvious amusement. "I love you the way you are, John, so be you." His gaze lowered, and despite the dim light, John could see Sherlock's cheeks go pink. "I may not be an omega in daily life, but … I am one in bed."

John actually felt his pulse jump, followed by a growl, before he tackled Sherlock and covered his body with his. Happily, instinct took over. John rubbed his face roughly against the faded bruises on the side of Sherlock's neck, coating the omega in his scent. He bit down gently—not hard enough to bond—but enough to make Sherlock huff out a surprised groan. John pinned Sherlock's hands above his head and thrust against him until Sherlock's eyes slammed shut.

John paused. "You okay?"

"God, yes. My alpha."

John might have whimpered.

They continued rutting against each other, Sherlock pinned beneath him. Part of John wanted to slow things down, but it was too late. Much too late. He continued licking and nipping and sucking on every part of the omega he could reach: neck, ear, jaw, mouth …

Sherlock, on the other hand, was barely coherent—a tangled mess of sweat and sensation whose vocabulary had been relegated to repeated chants of "Yes."

John pressed their noses together. "I want this every day."

"Yes." It was more a sigh than an actual pronouncement, but it was enough for John.

"I want you to always carry my scent on you." He nosed again at Sherlock's neck, and the detective's head tilted back in silent invitation.

"Yes," he whispered, trapped hands curled into fists above him.

"But this first." John pressed down against Sherlock and moved in just the right way until his lover went from semi-coherent to wordless, begging shouts.

Sherlock came first, and John thought he might as well just die right there because he would never—ever—see something that beautiful again. When John came, it was beneath the adoring scrutiny of Sherlock's gray-blue eyes.

John released Sherlock's wrists and tumbled to his side on the bed. He was immediately embraced in the omega's long appendages. Sherlock's face pressed against John's chest, and they rested there in silence, covered in sweat and semen and resolved sexual tension. And love. Love was there, too, of course.

John put his hands in Sherlock's hair. "I really do think you're going to kill me."

"Mm?"

"Heart attack in bed. I can hear the rumors already. _Overwhelmed by the beauty of his omega. Overdosed on orgasms."_ He wrapped Sherlock in his arms. "Promise me you'll never go into heat, because I'm pretty sure I would fuck you into the center of the Earth."

Sherlock chuckled, the sound muffled against John's skin. "I promise I'll never go into heat." He pulled back far enough to look at John. "I do, though, John. Promise. I swear it, in fact. Are you positive that's all right?"

John nodded. "You, love. I just want you."

"You have me."

"And you have me." John leaned forward for a quick kiss—which Sherlock made into a much longer kiss. They kept kissing until John felt something hard and hot against his hip. He pulled his mouth away and glanced down. "Jesus, Sherlock …"

"I've been told I have a very short refractory period. And I have an alpha in my bed." He climbed on John's lap, and John held his omega by the hips.

"Definitely gonna be the death of me …"

* * *

Sherlock rested, half asleep, on his stomach with his head on the pillow, arms folded beneath. John had never felt more awake, which was a bit of a miracle, considering he'd just spent eight hours worshipping—and being worshipped by—the man he now thought of as his.

John straddled Sherlock's waist and kissed his upper back. He kissed his mid-back. He kissed his lower back and did it all over again as Sherlock's body rose and fell with breath.

"I could conceivably live here," John said. "In bed. Kissing you everywhere. Forever."

"Dull." Sherlock sighed.

John smiled and pulled back. "I don't hear you complaining."

"Don't you dare stop," Sherlock grumbled.

John kept kissing until Sherlock's phone vibrated on the nightstand. The consulting detective shifted a bit to reach it. "It's Lestrade," he said and answered, although John thought his love sounded downright drunk on endorphins.

"Yes," Sherlock said into the phone. "Thank you." He hung up and tossed the phone on the bed. "Saul West is dead."

John paused. "Oh."

"Killed by a group of alphas who heard about his erectile dysfunction and found him an embarrassment to their kind. Torn to shreds apparently."

"Jesus."

Sherlock hummed and buried his face in the pillow. "Why aren't you kissing me?"

John rested his hands on Sherlock's lower back. "Well. I … Hmm."

Sherlock wiggled his hips and ran a hand through the tangles of his hair. Both movements sent a ricochet of _want_ down John's spine, but he didn't dive in—not yet.

"Just think it's ironic in the end. West abducted you, punished you, for not using your organs properly—for not breeding—when he was he one who literally couldn't use his organ properly."

"Probably part of why he hated omegas like me so much. Our perceived brokenness is by choice, while he had no say in his shortcoming. And when I say short, I do mean—"

"Sherlock, please don't talk about a dead alpha's cock when mine is pressed against your ass. Sort of ruins the mood." He leaned forward and playfully bit the back of his omega's shoulder.

"Do that again," Sherlock purred.

John acquiesced, tasting the salty sweat and lingering sweetness left over from their last go. "So you didn't have him killed?"

"Empty threats. I knew he was too weak to survive in an alpha prison, with or without my help. Think about it, John, he had to drug omegas to be able to control them when any self-respecting alpha would have simply used his superior strength. For instance, if you wanted to control me—really control me—you could quite easily do so."

John laughed … and laughed.

Sherlock leaned up on his elbow so he could glare back at John. "What on Earth is so funny?"

"Love, no one can control you. Ever. Not even me."

Sherlock smirked and stretched like a cat beneath him. "What time is it? I said I would visit Emily this morning."

"We will." John laid down on Sherlock and kissed the back of his neck. "Am I crushing you?"

"No. I like your weight on me." As evidence, John could almost feel the consulting detective melt happily into the mattress below.

"I know we're not bonded, but I'd like to consider you mine. And I belong to you. Is that all right?"

"Yes, John." He covered one of John's hands with his own. "And I won't change. And you won't change. And you'll pull my hair when I ask, and I'll suck you off in the back of taxis whenever I choose."

John gulped and cussed.

"Not alpha and omega but John and Sherlock. Right?"

John nodded against the back of Sherlock's head. "Right. My Sherlock."

"I really should get up, John."

"Well, you're not going anywhere without me. Not anymore."

Sherlock curled their fingers together. "I never want to."

THE END


End file.
